This beautiful game

We queued seperately, that is, we stood side by side
but no-one would have ever put us together
He; late teens, 6 foot, ace black, urban cool
Me; a foot shorter, forties, Matalan anorak
He ordered what I ordered and followed me to a table
slumping opposite, expresso eyes flicking between
the condiments and an hyperactive mobile

The tabletop is orange and scored with
tiny cuts, as if previous diners had disdained plates
and eaten straight off the formica
I had to stop myself from counting them

My mouth filled with taboo words;
'unrest, congo, family, home'
Talk that's too big for now, maybe ever
but there seems to be no other kind
I blow and sip weakling tea to cover

The back page of a red top
-held half way up, flopping like a bashful placard-
announced some sort of triumph

" Do you like football?"

It might have looked like some kind of feng shui
played out with napkins and sauce bottles
Only we knew, passing a sugar cube
Cole was the H.P, Rooney the Ketchup,
and Beckham was, of course, the Mustard